“Not long,” Lucas said into the radio. “There’s no vehicle here. I don’t see any fresh tracks, but I can’t see the other side of the yard. It’s possible that he dumped his sled and took off on another one before we got here.”
The feds have some kind of shrink on the line. He could call. We got some tear gas coming.
“Talk it out, Shelly. Talk to the hostage guy. I’m not a hostage specialist. All I can do from here is ambush the guy.”
Okay.
A moment later Carr came back: We’ve got a pickup coming in. Stand by.
Two minutes later, from Carr: We’ve got Rosie and Mark Harris in the pickup. They say their sister’s in there, Ginny Harris. They say Helper’s seeing her, not Rosie. They say there weren’t any other vehicles there. They’ve got only this pickup and a sled, and the sled’s in the back of the pickup. So they must be inside.
“So we wait?” Lucas asked.
Just a minute.
Lucas sat in the snow, watching the door, face wet with melting snow, snow clinging to his eyelashes. Climpt was thirty feet away, a dark blob in a drift, his rifle pointed up into the storm. He’d rolled a condom over the muzzle to keep the snow out. From the distance, Lucas couldn’t see the color, but back at the farmhouse, where Climpt had rolled it on, it was a shocking blue.
“Got neon lights on it?” Lucas had asked as they got ready to go out.
“Don’t need no lights,” Climpt said. “If you look close, you’ll notice that it’s an extra large.”
Lucas, we’re gonna have Rosie call in. We can patch her through from here. If Helper answers, she’ll ask for Ginny. That’s the young one. She’ll tell the girl to go to the door when Helper’s doing something, and just run out the front and down the driveway. Once she’s out, we’ll take the place apart.
Lucas didn’t answer immediately. He sat in the snow, thinking, and finally Carr came back: What do you think? Think it’ll work?
“I don’t know,” Lucas said.
You got any better ideas?
“No.”
There was an even longer pause, then Carr:
We’re gonna try it.
CHAPTER
The Iceman sat on the couch, furious, the unfairness choking his mind. He’d never had a chance, not from when he was a child. They’d always picked on him, victimized him, tortured him. And now they’d hunt him down like a dog. Kill him or put him in a cage.
“Motherfuckers,” he said, knuckles pressed into his teeth. “Motherfuckers.” When he closed his eyes, he could see opalescent white curtains blowing away from huge open windows, overlooking a city somewhere, a city with yellow buildings covered with light.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a rotting shag rug on the floor of a double-wide with aluminum walls. The yellow-haired girl had put a prepackaged ham-and-cheese in the microwave, and he could smell the cheap cheddar bubbling.
They’d set him up. They knew he’d done the others. The knowledge had come on him when he saw the deputies coming back, the knowledge had blown up into rage, and the gun had come up and had gone off.
He had to run now. Alaska. The Yukon. Up in the mountains.
He worked it out. The cops would call on every outlying farm and house in Ojibway County. They’d be carrying automatic weapons, wearing flak jackets. If he holed up, he wouldn’t have a chance: they would simply knock on every door, look in every room in every house, until they found him.
He wouldn’t wait. The storm could work for him. He could cut cross-country on the sled, along the network of Menomin Flowage snowmobile trails. He knew a guy named Bloom down at Flambeau Crossing. Bloom was a recluse, lived alone, raised retrievers and trained cutting horses. He had an almost-new four-by-four. If he could make it that far—and it was a long ride, especially with the storm—he could take Bloom’s truck and ID, head out Highway 8 to Minnesota, then take the interstate through the Dakotas into Canada. And if he stuck the horse trainer’s body in a snowdrift behind the barn, and unloaded enough feed to keep the animals quiet, it’d be several days before the cops started looking for Bloom and his truck.
By then . . .
He jumped off the couch, fists in his pants pockets, working the road map through his head. He could dump the truck somewhere in the Canadian wilderness, somewhere it wouldn’t be found until spring. Then catch a bus. He’d be gone.
“Where’n the fuck are they?” he shouted at the yellow-haired girl.
“Should be here,” she said calmly.
He needed Rosie and Mark to get back. Needed the gas from the truck if he was going to make the run down to Flambeau Crossing.
The yellow-haired girl had put the ham-and-cheese in the microwave and then she’d gone back to her bedroom and started changing. Longjohns, thick socks, a sweater. Got out her snowmobile suit, her pac boots, began to go through her stuff. Took pictures. Pictures of her mom, her brother and sister, found a photo of her father, flipped it facedown on the floor without a second look. She took a small gold-filled cross on a gold chain, the chain broken. She put it all in her purse. She could stuff the purse inside her snowmobile suit.
Helper had told her about the cops. There had been nothing he could do about it. They were right on top of him. She could feel the sense of entrapment, the anger. She patted him on the shoulder, held his head, then offered him food and went to pack.
She heard the watch chiming, then the ding of the microwave. She carried her stuff to the kitchen, dumped it on a chair, took the ham-and-cheese out of the oven. The package was hot, and she juggled it onto a plate. She’d put a cup of coffee in with the ham-and-cheese, but it wasn’t quite ready yet. She punched it for another minute and called, “Come and get it.”
Her mom used to say that a long time ago. She sometimes couldn’t quite remember her face. She could remember the voice, though, whining, as often as not, but sometimes cheerfuclass="underline" Come and get it.
The phone rang, and without thinking she reached over and picked it up. “Hello?”
The Iceman looked at her from the couch.
Rosie spoke, her voice a harsh, excited whisper. “Ginny—don’t look at Duane, okay? Don’t look at him. Just listen. Duane just killed two cops and all those other people. There are cops all around the house. You gotta get out so they can come in and get him. When Duane’s in the bathroom or something, whenever you get a chance, just go right out the front door and run down the driveway. Don’t put a coat on or anything, just run. Okay? Now say something like ‘Where the heck are you?’ ”
“Where the heck are you?” the yellow-haired girl said automatically. She turned to look at Duane.
“Tell him we’re still downtown and we wanted to know about the roads out there. Now say something about the roads.”
“Well, they’re a mess. It’s snowing like crazy,” the yellow-haired girl said. “The drive’s filling up, and a plow came by a little while ago and plowed us in.”
The Iceman was off the couch, whispering. “Tell her we need them to come out. I gotta have the gas. Don’t tell them I’m here.”
She put a finger to her lips, then went back to the phone. “I really kind of need you out here,” she said.
Rosie caught on. “Is he listening?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Tell him we’ll be out in a while. And when you get a chance, you run for it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“God bless you,” Rosie said. “Run for it, honey.”
The yellow-haired girl nodded. Duane was focused on her, fists in his pockets. “Sure, I will,” she said.